


Underneath the Tree

by EnduringChill



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Tree, Complete, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut, Tree Toilet Security, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-01 16:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2780723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas time and time to be fall in love - or admit that you are in love. Because if you can't say it at Christmas, when can you, eh? </p><p>Sherlock and John celebrate another Christmas at 221B. However when the past makes itself known, both men question what they really mean to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oh Tannenbaum

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Michelle for her help and inspiration as I work on what I hope to be a quick happy Christmas story to brighten the holiday. My goal is to have this 4 part story done by Christmas - then back to your scheduled fics. 
> 
> Inspired by this song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfF10ow4YEo

 

Sherlock stopped on the sixth step, lifting his eyes to the landing that led to his flat.The overpowering scent of evergreen assaulted his nose. Sherlock closed his eyes. Festive lights and garishly decorated store fronts infiltrated his beloved city. Everything was so disgustingly cheerful. And was John humming?   
  


He rolled his eyes to no one in particular before he took the rest of the stairs. 

The sight that met him was one to behold - John's denim-clad arse peeking out from under a tree. John's hum broke into swear word under his breath as he fought with a rusty tree stand. It might be time for a new one, Sherlock mused. This would be the third Christmas together at Baker Street. 

  
Sherlock pursed his lips as his eyes lingered on the strong hamstrings of his flatmate. When John backed out from under the tree, Sherlock turned away to remove his coat. "Oh God," he drawled. "Is it that time again?"

 

"Yes Sherlock, 'tis the season." John stretched his back.

  


 

 

Sherlock looked away from the arching back. "Didn't we have it recently?"

"It does come once a year. You do remember the case of the missing Nativity set?" John adjusted the tree to hide a large hole towards the corner.

Sherlock moved to the kettle. "How could I forget that you forced me to take a two? A two, John. It wasn't worthy of getting out of bed, let alone dressed to leave the flat," he complained.

"That church lady was very appreciative." John folded his arms across his chest.

  
"Yes, we were paid in scones with the density of a paper weight." Sherlock pulled two mugs from the cupboard. 

"They weren't so bad when you heated them." John shook his head. "The point, Sherlock, most people like Christmas. Like me, it's my favourite time of the year. People are cheerier. Things are prettier. I just enjoy it."

Sherlock regarded his flatmate for a moment. He knew that he had pushed too many of John's buttons by the angry flush that crept up the back of his neck and spread to the tops of his ears. It was the tell tale sign that Sherlock had offended John somehow.

  
He placed a steaming mug on the table beside John's chair. "It's a fine tree, John."

Sherlocks chest pulled tight when John turned to beam up at him. "Not too shabby, I must admit." 

Sherlock eased into his chair to gaze at the green monstrosity before him. He wished John would get a fake pre-lit tree. There was no watering, no dry needles to get stuck in his socks. Yet, there was something comforting about watching John struggle with a tangled bundle of lights. Sherlock watched him for ten minutes beforerolling his eyes and snatching the mess from his flatmate's hands. The next few minutes dissolved into both men cursing and laughing as they untangled the ball to string around the tree.

"It's lopsided." Sherlock declared as he took a step back.

"What?" John frowned. "No. I measured everything."

  


 

 

John stood beside Sherlock. Both heads tilted to the left.

"Bollocks, you're right," John muttered.

  
"I'm always right." Sherlock grinned.

"I can fix this." John moved to the book case. His hand reached for an old book on forensic science.

"Not that one!" Sherlock barked.

His fingers rested on the spine of a book about medieval autopsies.

Sherlock strode over and plucked John's James Patterson novel from the bottom shelf. "Here. This will do the trick." 

"That's my book." 

"Propping up a tree that will die within two weeks is the perfect use for a book such as this." He handed the book John.

"You really hated it?"

Sherlock sighed. "As a mystery, yes. It insults the intelligence of the reader. A child could solve it."

John snatched the book from the pompous detective. "Took me half way through."

Sherlock slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. "You were having an off week."

John's glare dissolved into a chuckle.

"Besides, it is the perfect width you need to balance the tree," Sherlock offered.

With that, John crawled under the tree once more. Sherlock tried not to stare. It was getting harder to ignore the building emotions he felt for his doctor. While he hadalways enjoyed John's company above anyone else, one night a month ago changed everything.

  
_They ran up the stairs of the abandoned building, evidence of discarded drug use crackling underfoot. Sherlock heard the floorboards creek as he chased the murder suspect on the second floor._   


  
_And then...the unmistakable sound of splintering wood; John crying out in agony.Sherlock, his heart faltering, stopped the chase and looked through the new hole in the floor to see John sprawled_ _across planks of wood._ _Though he called out, there was no response. He heard footfalls pound down the stairs and past John. Sherlock did not care. His feet slipped down the worn stairs as he bounded down them frantically. Where was the blood coming from? His fingers shook violently as he struggled to place the emergency call._

  
_"Lestrade. Sent help. It's John. He's badly hurt. HURRY!" Sherlock's voice broke as he swallowed a sob._ _His shaky hand touched John' warm cheek. "John, open your eyes. Now is not the time for a kip." His voice cracked. "John, please."_  


"Is that better?" John called from beneath the tree.

Sherlock's eyes snapped up to the tree. "Not perfect."

"Will it do?" John didn't mask his irritation. 

"If you feel comfortable in settling - then yes." Sherlock wiped his damp brow, hoping these thoughts wouldn't trigger another nightmare about the night he almost lost John. Since then, Sherlock found it difficult to not feel a pull in his chest when John looked at him. The mere brush of a hand sent immediate heat to his cheeks.

Sherlock watched his friend wriggle out from under evergreen branches.

John shot Sherlock a glare before he turned to the tree. "It's not bad. The trunk is crooked so it'd never be straight as a board."

"Perhaps next year, we can be more selective." 

John looked over. "Is that a passive aggressive 'we' or do you mean you and I together?"

Sherlock watched as the blond shook green needles from his hair. Against his better judgment, Sherlock reached over to brush off the one that clung to John's jumper.

"Maybe I will accompany you next year." 

A small smile tugged in the corner of John's mouth. Sherlock saw a flicker of something different in his eyes. Hope? Warmth? 

 

Arousal?

 

"Oh John, it's beautiful," a shrill voice called from the doorway.

Sherlock closed his eyes. Ah, the new girlfriend was here. Lydia.

"Lisa." John cleared his throat, the telltale sign of his discomfort.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, John looked away quickly before he crossed to the doorway. 

"I'm sorry I'm late. My shift ran late. Ruby didn't show up until half past four." Lisa removed her white puffy coat. 

Sherlock's head pounded. Lisa wore her best fornication invitation dress - clingy and plunging neckline. As he watched John's eyes ogle at her breasts, Sherlock's vision blurred and stomach rolled.

"I'll leave you to it." He did not mean tree trimming.

John tore his eyes away. "You're leaving?"

Sherlock pushed past Lisa to retrieve his coat. "I have things to do."

John frowned. "What things? Greg didn't call."

Sherlock didn't answer. He was not going to the Met.

"Stay. It'll be fun." Lisa's voice climbed several octaves higher when she lied.

Sherlock whirled around. "Honestly?"

Her eyes widened. "Of course." A few octaves higher.

"Yes, stay." John's voice was low, almost husky. 

Sherlock turned to look at him. John did want him to stay. But why? Pity? It couldn't be anything more than that. Lisa wore her most inviting dress. John would have intercourse with her one floor up. Sherlock was not staying around for that.

"Enjoy your evening." It sounded bitter, but Sherlock didn't care. 

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Lisa slid her arms around John's waist. "I think he's being polite."

John's eyes don't leave Sherlock's face. "Polite? Sherlock?"

Sherlock winced. "Good night, John."

With the final kick in his ego, Sherlock dashed down the stairs. He thought he heard John's voice call after him. Under no circumstance would Sherlock return to the flat until he was certain Lydia would be gone. John's girlfriends rarely stayed the night. If they insisted, John was certain to end the relationship within days.  
  


Sherlock's chest was tight. The cold London air added difficulty in catching his breath as he stalked down the street. What did John see in that vapid woman? Her laugh was dreadful. She stared at John with vacant eyes when he spoke. And her attempt at humor was truly appalling. Then He remembered the tight dress and hair toss. Leanne was exactly what any heterosexual male would want. Sherlock wondered how long John waited before he stripped her and took her to bed 'to get a leg over'. The thought made Sherlock shudder. He needed something to forget. He needed to deaden these useless emotions regarding his very straight flatmate.

 


	2. A Wonderful Christmas Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get invited to the Met Christmas party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments! Again, thanks to my editor who doubles as my agent. Maybe one day we'll both get paid!

 

"How do you function? Such a simple detail and you clearly missed it," Sherlock sighed in disgust.  
  


Greg glowered from his desk. "When you're done showing off, would you care to get to the point?"

Sherlock sniffed the air derisively. "If you don't value my help, this can go unsolved. Call it suicide. What's one more murderer on the street?"

"Sherlock," John warned. 

"He is not interested in doing his job," Sherlock argued.

"Just bloody well get on with it!" John erupted. He was mildly satisfied with the wounded look on Sherlock's face.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped. "There is no possible way Roger Perkins took his own life."

Greg leaned back in his chair. "Go on then."

 

Sherlock straightened and tucked his hands behind his back. John crossed his arms and leaned against the desk, watching the slender detective pace the room as he told the sad tale of Roger Perkins. A man who suffered a mild stroke five years ago and lost fine motor function in his dominant side. Sherlock pointed to forensic photographs, deducing how Roger had practiced strengthening his left arm by bouncing a rubber ball on a wall. He detailed the large inheritance and bitter rivalry the man had experienced with his younger sister. 

 

For ten solid minutes, Sherlock did not come up for air.  John loved watching him in his brilliant mode, listening as Sherlock spoke faster than a train without brakes.His eyes slid over everything in the room--except when they landed on John, which seemed to create the slightest pause in his rapid fire deductions. John smiled, briefly forgetting that Sherlock was talking about a murder, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth curled in response.  In that moment, John felt as if they shared a secret. Felt...special. And to be special to Sherlock, he knew, was a precious thing. 

 

When Sherlock finished, Greg blinked a few times before he spoke. "How do you bloody do that?"

John shook his head. "Don't. He hates to repeat himself."

Greg reached over to grab the phone. "Donovan? Can you prepare a warrant? Billy Noble. Yes, that's the brother-in-law. Yeah, get one for the sister too."

While Greg argued with Sally over paperwork, Sherlock stood beside John. 

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what?" John cocked an eyebrow.

"No 'amazing' or 'brilliant'?" Sherlock asked.

  
"Thought you'd be tired of that by now." John shrugged.

"I never tire hearing your input."

John smiled. "Especially when it's praise."

"Naturally."

"It was extraordinary, Sherlock." John nudged him with his shoulder.

And Sherlock beamed at him. John loved it when he did. It was a rare moment when Sherlock would let his guard down and seemabsolutely pleased. John wondered if it was the fact that Sherlock knew he had been amazing, or if it was simply that Johnhad regarded him as such. Either way, Sherlock's unguarded smile was one of John's favourite things in life.

Greg hung up the phone. "Another case done. If you're free, you should come to the Bull and Boar. It's the division Christmas," Greg rolled his eyes, "I mean holiday party."

 

John glanced over to Sherlock. The invitation didn't even register with the detective. 

"Molly will be there," Greg offered.

Sherlock frowned. "I am fully aware of Miss Hooper's affection for me, Craig. If this is an attempt..."

Greg stood and buttoned his jacket. "She's going with me, you pompous git."

Sherlock shoved his hands deep into his coat. Was that a blush on his cheeks? 

"Fancy a pint?" John looked up at Sherlock.

"You're still seeing Lisa, right?" Greg asked as he pulled his coat from the hook. "Ring her up. See if she wants to come down."

John noticed Sherlock's body stiffen. "Uh, yeah. I'm still seeing her. I guess I could."

And then, from the breast pocket of Sherlock's coat, an unmistakable moan escaped. There was no reaction from Sherlock--he didn't even blink. John felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. For a moment, the room tilted to the left. It couldn't be. She had been beheaded. Mycroft had shown him the photos.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Sherlock?"

"I'll have to decline tonight," he said with a curt nod.

The phone moaned again. Sherlock's jaw twitched. The numbness in John's stomach curled into fear.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" John asked roughly.

"Enjoy your gathering. I must be off." The higher pitch in Sherlock's usual smooth baritone alarmed John.

"Where are you going?" John asked, his own pitch ticked up.

"A previous engagement. Excuse me." Sherlock was out the door before John could form words. 

"What was that about?" Greg wrapped a scarf around his neck. 

"The past," John answered distractedly. 

 

He could see Greg wanted to know more, but instead asked, "Are you coming?"

 

John considered the alternatives. He could go home and pace the flat, wondering if the text messages were really from Irene; wondering what was she doing alive and contacting Sherlock. 

 

Or, he could call Lisa and take out all this unsettled energy out on top of her. 

"Sure." John shrugged and followed Greg down the hall.

While Greg went on about work, John quietly nodded, lost in his own thoughts. Perhaps he should ring up Lisa to come to the pub. She wouldn't need many drinks to get into bed. Or maybe he could pull someone else? Lisa wouldn't know. True, she was starting to get attached. She'd gone on the other day about his Christmas present being perfect. That meant John had to get her something. It was too soon for any sort of jewelry. Perfume? Maybe he would ask Sherlock what she wore. _Sherlock_. John's insides twisted. He forced Lisa to the front of his mind again.

Lisa wanted to get serious. Maybe it was time to settle down. He wasn't getting younger. How long could he wait for the right one to come along? It was time to push away his childish fantasies of a great love. 

"Do you think Sherlock is upset about Molly and me?" Greg's question brought John to the present.

"Why would he be?" 

Greg shrugged. "Maybe he really did like her but never acted on it. He left right after that."

"Sherlock doesn't like anyone, Greg. That's not the way he functions."  _Unless she's a dominatrix back from the dead_ _,_ he thought with a trace of bitterness.  

"Here we go." Greg tugged the door open. 

The pub was lit up with white lights around the bar and windows. Greg's division gathered in the back around a Christmas tree. 

"It's on me." Greg clapped John's shoulder.

The first pint went down in a matter of minutes. John decided that Anderson was slightly more tolerable without Sherlock--but only slightly. He chatted with Dimmock for a bit before heading to the bar for pint two.

Why hadn't Sherlock told him Irene was alive? How long had he known? John looked over to see Molly giggle as Greg talked in her ear. He had to admit that they looked cute together. Greg had nothing to fear from Sherlock. The tall git didn't do relationships.  _Except for Irene,_ John thought as his stomach dropped. Themanipulative liar had brought no worth to Sherlock's life, except to confuse and deceive him. She was the one person who seemed to sink into his skin while everyone else repulsed him. She had intrigued him, and John couldn't quite name the emotion he felt over the place she held in Sherlock's world. Jealousy? No. 

 

Was it?

 

"Hey mate, are you okay?" Greg asked.

John forced a laugh. "Yeah, why?"

"You are completely lost over here. Did you have a fight with your girl?" Greg signaled the bartender.

John shook his head. "No. I was thinking of calling her."

Greg leaned back to really look at John. "Did you and Sherlock have a row?"

John frowned and forced another incredulous laugh. "No. I mean, he's still an insufferable arse, but that's no different than any other day."

"It just seemed like things got tense before he left," Greg said casually. He tossed some nuts in his mouth. "What was that message alert?"

John clenched his fist on his thigh. "Someone from his past."

"Not a girlfriend." 

"Not exactly." John unsuccessfully tried to think of a way to change the subject. However he could not get that sound out of his mind of the guilt on Sherlock's face when John glanced over.

"You looked pissed off." Greg wasn't going to let it drop.

"I don't trust her. He was upset when she disappeared." John drank half his beer. "She hurt him. And appears to be back."

"How did I not know about this? Sherlock and a woman?" Greg shook his head.

  
_The_ Woman, John seethed. He could feel Greg staring at him.

"There's more." Greg leaned closer. "Is there anything going on..." 

"For God's sake, Greg. Why does everyone always jump to that?" John raised his voice. "She's not a good person. That's my concern."

Images of red nails scraping over pale skin flashed into his mind. Was she seeing a side of Sherlock he would never see?

"Guess you'll have to ask him yourself," Greg said.

"What?" When John looked up, Greg's gaze was  at the door. John whirled around. Standing in the doorway was an uncertain Sherlock.

"Guess his prior engagement wasn't that important." Greg waved Sherlock over.

John frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"Holiday cheer. Aren't you always encouraging me to be more social?" Sherlock tossed a few notes on the bar. "Three."

"I didn't think you'd ever actually do it." John finished his beer. "What happened to your other thing?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly, but John knew it was an act.

"Oh that? Postponed." Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly as he unwrapped his neck. 

John raised an eyebrow. "Postponed?"

Sherlock's eyes met his. "Cancelled."

John felt as if he'd been shoved in front of the fireplace. An indescribable joy erupted within him. Later, John wanted answers, but right now, Sherlock was here with him. 

"Where is Laura?" Sherlock glanced around.

"I never invited her." John bit the inside of his lip to prevent a smile. The insufferable arse never could remember the names of his girlfriends - probably on purpose. 

The corner of Sherlock's lip curled up; but the smile sparkled in his eyes. He handed John a new pint. "To the holiday."

A smile broke free on John's face and he openly beamed. "To Christmas."

  


 

John was glad that he never placed the call to invite Lisa. Watching Sherlock actually enjoy himself was better than getting off with Lisa. Sherlock even managed to tolerate Anderson a bit more; only two disparaging remarks. While John bought the next round, he watched the detective laugh with Greg and Molly. When Sherlock really laughed, his face lit up and was a truly beautiful sight. John turned away to look around the bar. There were plenty of pretty birds milling about. A redhead across from him made eye contact. John couldn't see below her chest, but he knew she had the curves he liked. She sent him an inviting smile, and John knew he could be shagging her within a few hours. He'd always enjoyed a buxom redhead. Lisa had not declared they were exclusive, though John knew he would most likely be in the wrong if he were to get off with this woman. The bartender dropped two pints in front of him. The redhead leaned closer--a definite invitation.

  
John looked towards the party in the back. Sherlock was deep in conversation with Donovan of all people. It looked as amiable as a discussion with Sherlock could be. There was a flutter in John's chest as he watched Sherlock gesture with his hands to make his point--strangulation, apparently. John chuckled and brought his flatmate a fresh pint. 

An hour and a half later, John dragged Sherlock along the sidewalk towards 221B. For someone who wore three nicotine patches and used to shoot up on the regular, it was surprising that three pints would put him over. However, Sherlock's high pitched giggle was worth having to shove him up the stairs.

 

"You'll wake Mrs. Hudson," John scolded.

"Ah, Hudders," Sherlock shudder in laughter. "Good ole' Hudders."

"Quiet, you great git," John laughed.

Alcohol could be a truth serum and John saw his chance as Sherlock fought to remove his coat. He tried earlier to ask about the message earlier, but Sherlock deflected the question.

"Who messaged you earlier?" John picked up Sherlock's discarded coat from the floor.

"Do we not have a milk?" Sherlock's top half disappeared in the refrigerator.

"No, I told you we needed more." 

"No, you said you would get more," Sherlock countered.

They bickered for ten minutes about milk and shopping in general until finally, Sherlock slumped into his chair. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back. John's eyes mapped constellations over the moles of Sherlock's throat. Did Irene have them memorized? Had she drawn lines on his body as he slept?

  


 

 

"Sherlock, listen," John started.

A soft snore from the detective stopped John. He stood with a sigh. "Okay then. Let's get you to bed."

For someone so lithe, he was heavier than John anticipated. Sherlock muttered incomprehensibly as John hoisted him from the chair to guide him down the short hallway. 

"How's Irene?" he asked, still hoping the inebriated man would talk.

Instead, Sherlock let out an exasperated huff and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders. Soft curls brushed against John's cheeks and he forgot all about Irene. He could only make out two words that Sherlock murmured in his ear--"you" and "John." They way he purred them caused an icy chill to slide down his spine.

John helped Sherlock remove his jacket before he plopped him on the bed.

"I can do it," Sherlock said into the pillow.

"Of course you can." John untied Sherlock's shoes and placed them under the bed. "Budge up."

With a groan, Sherlock rolled to side so John could pull the duvet up.

"Fine. I'm fine," Sherlock muttered sleepily.

  


 

 

"Of course." John squeezed his shoulder gently before leaving the room. 

As he scrubbed his hand over his face, John contemplated making some tea. It was past midnight. Perhaps bed would be a better decision. He wondered if his drunk flatmate would need him during the night. He should have taken the deal Mycroft offered years ago to be Sherlock's paid keeper. John smiled. Most days, he couldn't imagine doing anything else.

John stretched out on the Chesterfield. If Sherlock howled in the middle of the night, it would be a shorter trip to his bedroom. The normally stoic man had been plagued by nightmares in the last month. John had heard him call out on a few occasions. He wanted to ask, but Sherlock was not one for sharing.

John draped his arm over his eyes and listened for noise down the hall. Why had Sherlock gone to the party after receiving the text message? John was certain it was Irene--very much alive. If it had been a hoax, the chase would be on. Clearly Sherlock had known for some time. Was Irene in London? Had Sherlock seen her? John hated that so much of Sherlock's relationship with Irene was unknown to him, and he couldn't brush away the feeling of betrayal. 

A muffled groan came from Sherlock's room. John lifted his arm and turned his head. The bed springs squeaked then fell silent as a snore tore through the quiet of the flat.

  
_He'll hurt tomorrow_ , John thought. He closed his eyes again and fell asleep.


	3. O Holy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a Christmas Eve party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Michelle for putting her life on pause to beta. Love ya!

"Did Lorraine get evicted from her flat?" Sherlock didn't lift his eyes from the microscope.    
  


 

"No, why?" John paused before sighing. "Is that thinly veiled comment about her staying over?"

Sherlock rolled his shoulders. "I thought there might be a reason for her squatting."

"Maybe because I enjoy her company." John's smile was not pleasant.

Sherlock flinched. Last night, he'd had to hear how much she enjoyed his company. His skin had itched for escape. At eleven o'clock, he'd torn out of the flat in search of a distraction from the two things he wanted but could not have. 

 

When he had returned at four, he'd encountered John in his shorts in the kitchen, stewing over a glass of milk. They had spoken a few terse words before retreating to their respective corners of the house.

It had been like that the week after the Met party. Sherlock had been hopeful when Lydia was not at the pub. It seemed as though John had not missed her. In the seven days since, however, she had stayed four of the nights. If the vocal intercourse didn't force Sherlock to put his hand through a wall, Lina's constant cooing in John's ear might have been the thing to make Sherlock tear 221B to the ground.

Sherlock's phone rattled against the kitchen table. Quickly he scooped it up to read the message. With his thumb, he tapped his response.

"You've muted your phone?" John quirked an eyebrow.

  


 

 

"I'd hate for my mobile to interrupt your canoodling," he replied sourly.

John burst into chuckle. "Did you just say canoodling?"

"Isn't that what you people call it?" Sherlock snapped.

"You people?" John still laughed.

John's jovial demeanor was putting off Sherlock. They bickered like this at least once a day with Sherlock's snide comments about Lisa and John's not so stealth attempts to ask about Irene. 

"Couples." Sherlock was certain John inferred his grimace was about love in general and not the jealousy burning inside him every time that woman touched John.

  
Sherlock looked up to see John covered in toast crumbs. He shook his head. "Clearly you need someone to look after you." Without thinking, he leaned over and brushed the crumbs from John's chest. Under his hand, he felt John suck in his breath.

Dropping his gaze, Sherlock sat in his chair again. "Sorry, you were a mess." He knew his cheeks had turned scarlet.

 

"Toast was dry." John took his plate to the sink. "I'm off the shops to get food for tonight. Any requests?"

"Brie." Sherlock peered into the microscope. "Good Brie."

"Wrap up that experiment of yours. We have people coming over tonight," John ordered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but secretly enjoyed John's authoritative voice.

When John was gone, Sherlock responded to the earlier message. Begrudgingly, he put away the microscope and notebook to straighten up a bit. John had been excited for the Christmas Eve party. Every year, he invited a few more people. Sherlock scoffed that next year they'd need to rent a hall. But John loved Christmas and everything that went with it, and even Sherlock had to admit that John's enthusiasm was infectious. 

 

If only the girlfriend would come down with a mild stomach bug and not turn up. Sherlock had tried to ensure that occurrence with a special sweetener. He'd felt confident it would work, and since John never took honey or sugar in his tea or coffee, he would be safe. Three mornings that week, Sherlock had watched Leila spoon three teaspoons into her coffee. Although he hadn't had time to test the dosage, he deduced her weight and metabolism and doctored the sugar with a mild ipecac agent...just enough to put her out of commission for the night, but not in the hospital. How could he have anticipated that she would be late and run out without her tea? 

 

He didn't believe in luck or divine intervention, but he still hoped for either.

***  
"That was beautiful, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson clapped. 

  


 

 

He lowered the violin from his shoulder and turned to face the room. The flat was practically bursting with people. Through the bodies, his eyes met John's.

"It was very nice," John nodded. 

  


 

 

The praise made Sherlock's chest bloom. But the moment was over as Linda reclaimed John's attention again. How did he put up with someone so needy?

John had been distracted for most of the party. For the first time, Harry had come. John had invited her for the last three years, but she'd always declined. This year, she came with her girlfriend. The first few minutes were strained as they made introductions and exchanged pleasantries.

 

"Why this year?" John asked.

"Your flatmate was persistent with his invitation." Harry said.

John gave an amazed glance to Sherlock, who chose that moment to bustle into the kitchen for another bottle of wine.

"You convinced her?" John's voice was suddenly close to Sherlock's ear.

He closed his eyes, feeling John's warmth bleed through his suit. "I only suggested that she come." He moved away before feral instinct took over. 

  


 

 

John's hand grabbed his shoulder. "Thank you. Best Christmas present."

He could hear the emotion in John's voice. Oh, if he could turn around and pull him into a hug without ruining everything.

When Sherlock turned around, John was already on the other side of the room with Harry and Linda. 

"Presents!" Mrs Hudson called.

Sherlock frowned. "Presents?"

John chuckled as he walked to the tree. "Don't worry. No one expects you to give presents."

Sherlock wished that comment didn't sting. He opened his mouth to release a scathing remark, but turned to the window instead.

Sherlock cursed the light snow falling on Baker Street. It was too idyllic. Behind him, the sounds of Christmas rang in his ears. Mrs Hudson loved the new tea set that John bought for her. Lestrade and John gave each other the same bottle of scotch. Sherlock rolled his eyes...how droll. Lisa bought John a hideous jumper which he claimed to love. 

Sherlock's stomach dropped as John presented her with a small jewelry box. Things could not have progressed that far. Surely John would discuss a major decision with him, Sherlock fretted. 

 

Unfortunately, Linda had clearly been expecting the same thing. She artfully hid her disappointment when she opened the box to find, not a ring, but a pair of green earrings--apparently her birthstone. Sentiment, Sherlock grumbled to himself and gazed out the window.

"John, this one is for you," said Mrs Hudson. "Oh, it's from Sherlock."

"Really? Usually he just puts a bow on the milk," John joked.

Sherlock whirled around in panic. He had forgotten he tossed John's gift under the tree in haste. 

"You don't have to open it now," he said dismissively.

"I have yours upstairs. I wasn't even going to wrap it." John inspected the brightly wrapped box. "You've done a bang up job."

"I can wait until you wrap yours." Sherlock wanted to snatch the box from John's hands and toss it out the window like a bomb.

"No, open it now," Mrs Hudson cooed. 

With the rest of the room urging him on, John ripped into the paper. Sherlock held his breath. This was meant to be private--a moment just for John and him.

John held completely still as he opened the box. Slowly he brought his hand to his lips. For those few seconds, the others in the room melted away leaving only Sherlock, John, and their beating hearts.

"What is it?" Lisa asked.

When John looked up at him, Sherlock saw it--recognition. He shifted his weight nervously.

"That was months ago," John said.

Harry gasped. "That looks like Father's."

Gingerly, John lifted the platinum pocket watch from the box.

 

  


 

 

"We had gone into an antique store to question the shopkeeper." His eyes met Sherlock's. "I saw this and told you it was just like one my father had. The one I used to play with, the one he let me wear when I became a doctor. This was...very expensive if I remember."

Sherlock wanted to bolt. Every emotion he'd managed to tamp down in regards to John suddenly bubbled over.

He cleared his throat. "I just thought you'd like it."

  


 

 

Molly and Mrs Hudson gasp at the same time. 

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson's voice broke.

Sherlock pursed his lips and closed his eyes. This was never meant to happen. John was never meant to know...let alone a room full of others. Molly's eyes were shining with understanding. The room was frightfully still. Even Lisa's eyes widened with shock.

 

John stood. "Sherlock, this is....extraordinary. I mean, you didn't have to but you did."

Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes. "Just...thought you would appreciate it."

"Look at me, Sherlock." John's voice was so soft, he had to look up. It was written all over his face--John knew that Sherlock loved him. The sociopath was dead, and left a man trembling with sentiment in his wake.

John's eyes widened in realization. "You always manage to amaze me. I thought you never...."

"Just kiss already," grumbled Anderson from the kitchen.

Sherlock would never forgive John for inviting him.

While the room turned to admonish Anderson for his outburst, Sherlock pushed through everyone towards the door.

"John, what's he talking about?" Lisa asked.

"Ignore him," John said, trying to stop Sherlock.

"If you'll excuse me," Sherlock barely choked out.

"Sherlock, wait," John protested.

  


 

 

"Jesus, Anderson. You have less social skills than Sherlock," Greg barked to the cowering medical examiner.

  


 

 

"John," Lisa implored.

"Just a minute," John pleaded. "Sherlock."

He didn't turn around to look at John. Sherlock was afraid of what he would see. Disgust? Pity? Everyone in his flat knew and he couldn't stay there one more second. 

Sherlock cursed ever buying the bloody watch. Sentiment, he scowled. Why couldn't he go back to when things were simple?

_"He's stable. Bit of concussion, some lacerations--one pretty deep. Sprained ankle and two fingers," the doctor said._

_"When can he come home?" Sherlock asked._

_"We'd like to keep him overnight for observation. He should be released in the morning."_

_Sherlock nodded tersely. "May I see him?"_

_"Just be quiet. We have him sedated to prevent swelling of the brain." The doctor stepped away from the door._

_Sherlock's eyes adjusted to the contrast from brightly lit hallway. A dim light above John provided the only light in the room. Sherlock's heart dropped at the sight of his strong soldier unconscious in a stark hospital bed. He inched closer to the bed. Clasping his hands together, Sherlock sunk into the chair beside him. His eyes combed over every cut, the bandages, the wires fixed to John's chest. He listened to the steady beep of John's heart. The image of John on the splintered wood entered his mind. There had been so much blood; he thought John had been impaled. In a panic, he couldn't find a pulse. Then and there Sherlock had one thought: I cannot live without John Watson._

_"I'm sorry." Sherlock reached out to touch John's warm hand._

_It was his fault they'd gone into the condemned building in the first place. John had warned him it was dangerous, that it was not worth it to chase the suspect. Yet, Sherlock had done what he always did and ran off with no consideration for safety._

_Sherlock watched John through the night. He stayed through the infection that bloomed from one of the lacerations. He ignored the case that put John in that bed. His only focus was on his doctor. And as Sherlock waited for him to wake, he began to notice John. His heart thundered when his eyes fell on John's strong chest. Sherlock could not resist the urge to touch his silky hair. He held John's limp hand between his, and did something he did only once before--pray._

  
_  
_John had recovered quickly. Sherlock had hoped that, once the good doctor returned to his feet, the crazy thoughts in his head would disappear. Emotions, however, were like a fungus: without needing much attention, they grew and spread. Things Sherlock had never taken notice of before turned his world upside down. Like John's scent after a shower, or how John's robe never seemed to close properly. Sherlock had never cared about personal space; he had invaded John's all the time. Now he was keenly aware of how closely he and John worked. A brush here, a bump there. It had always been normal for John to drop a hand to Sherlock's shoulder while working on a case, but lately when Sherlock felt the breath on his neck...for the briefest of moments, he wondered what John's lips felt like. The urge had scared Sherlock. He'd hated the jealousy he felt when John left the flat for a date. Then came Lily. The first night she and John had intercourse in the flat, Sherlock had itched for a vial of heroin to block out the creaking bed and moans from John's room.

 

And now everyone knew. John would be awkward; perhaps he would want to leave. Their friendship and partnership would be over.

The snow fell in fast fat flakes. His shoes slipped in the sidewalks slick surface. In his haste, he had left his coat. As he turned to hail a cab, a sleek black car pulled up beside him. The door opened and Sherlock peered inside. 

  
"You're just like my brother," he said, climbing in and closing the door behind him.


	4. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John leaves the party to look for Sherlock, but encounters the ghosts of Christmas past and present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had hoped to have this completed by New Year's Day....but alas the holidays are hectic. Especially when you travel with children. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience and interest in my Christmas story. One more chapter to go! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read this and to my lovely beta.

"John, what just happened?" Lisa asked.  
  


John couldn’t focus on all the conversations. Lisa, Harry, Mrs. Hudson - so many voices talking to and around him. He closed his eyes to make it stop.  _Focus_ , he thought.  _What_ _is_ _important?_  

 

 

The raw panic in Sherlock’s eyes as John opened his gift. The gasps from Molly and Mrs. Hudson—did they know something? Anderson’s stupid remark about kissing. The hurt on Sherlock’s face right before he bolted. Sherlock running off.  
  


 

 

 

John’s eyes pop open. “I have to go.”  
  


Lisa grabbed his arm. “Where? It’s Christmas Eve.”  
  


"Yes, and my best friend just ran into a winter storm without his coat. Something is wrong and I have to find him."  
  


"You don’t think he’d…." Greg started.  
  


John shook his head. “I don’t know. I have to get to him before his demons do.”  
  


"Please, I’m so worried." Mrs. Hudson’s eyes welled with tears. "I didn’t know…"  
  


John held up his hand. “We’ll handle that later. I have to get him.”  
  


"John, wait," Lisa protested.  
  


"I’ll be back, okay? I have to go." Brusquely, he kissed her cheek before grabbing his coat off the hook.   
  


He hadn’t expected at least an inch of snow on the sidewalk. That stupid git was running around London without a bloody coat. He followed the one set of footprints he found in the snow. The shape and size looked about right. Unfortunately, the snow was growing more intense, covering Sherlock’s tracks. Bracing himself against the stinging cold, he tried to think of where Sherlock would go. To Mycroft’s? Doubtful. He might have gone to St. Bart’s to hide among the corpses. However, Molly was at Baker Street. He checked his mobile. Nothing.  
  


_Where are you? JW_   
  


He knew that Sherlock was unlikely to answer if he called. After a few blocks, Sherlock’s footprints disappeared in the accumulation of snow and other pedestrian traffic. John ducked under a storefront awning. He had 5 new messages. One from Greg and one from Molly. The rest were from Lisa. He dialed Sherlock’s number. It rang three times before going to voicemail.   
  


"Sherlock, where are you? I know your coat is at home. Please call or text back," John said.   
  


He leaned back against the window. Where could Sherlock have gone in this weather, and on Christmas Eve? John thought of Irene. He was certain that Sherlock had seen her recently; there was no mistaking her scent. He tried to ignore the burning in his belly when Sherlock came home smelling like her. Was he shagging her? John laughed to himself. The self- proclaimed sociopath shagging a dominatrix? But Irene wasn’t just any woman with a whip; she was The Woman. She was the only person to crawl under his skin.   
  


Shaking his head, John continued down the street. If Sherlock was… _with_ …Irene, why wasn’t he with her tonight? Why had he not wanted everyone to see the lovely gift he bought John? John recalled the expression of sheer hope on Sherlock’s face, only to be followed by embarrassment and…shame? He had looked as though he wanted to disappear. And then he had.

 

For a brief second, John thought it was possible that Sherlock might have emotions that went beyond friendship. But this was  _Sherlock_ , and that still didn’t explain messages from Irene. None of this made sense, and it caused his head to pound.   
  


As John checked his phone again, a black car pulled up beside him.  
  


"Of course," John sighed.   
  


The door opened and Anthea slipped out.  
  


"Happy Christmas," John said.  
  


"Sure." She moved back to let John slip in.  
  


 

 

 

 

He was surprised to find Mycroft dressed to the nines seated inside. Anthea got in beside the driver as the privacy divider closed.  
  


"John, Merry Christmas." The sentiment did not reach Mycroft’s tone.  
  


"Do you know where he is?" John asked.  
  


"We’re working on it," Mycroft answered.  
  


John’s fists curled. "Is it a Danger Night?"  
  


"I’m not certain. We are looking into all his haunts."   
  


"Have you asked Irene Adler?" John challenged. He fumed when Mycroft didn’t blink. "So, you knew too?"  
  


"I’ve always known. I gave you a false report to show him."   
  


John threw his arms up, exasperated. “I should have bloody known. I bet he knew it was fake.”  
  


"Perhaps. She was in danger but was saved in the final moments of her execution." Mycroft brushed a speck of lint from his trousers.  
  


John shook his head. Of course the Holmes brothers knew and let John blink around in the dark. Wait, why would Mycroft mention her almost-death?  
  


"He bloody well saved her, didn’t he?" John asked.  
  


"That is what my intelligence told me." Mycroft shrugged casually.  
  


John rubbed his forehead hard enough to leave a red mark. “Okay, then what’s all this about? Why did he run off after giving me a present if he’s in love with Irene?”  
  


Mycroft chuckled. “ In love with Irene? What does he see you in common folk?”  
  


"I’m losing my patience, Holmes," John gritted.  
  


The mention of his last name caused Mycroft to shift uncomfortably. “John, I don’t know what the nature of his friendship with Ms. Adler is, but I can tell you it is not romantic or sexual. Let’s look at the night.”  
  


"You still have cameras in Baker?" John raised a nervous eyebrow.  
  


"Just the common areas. You know I worry about him constantly." Mycroft settled back. "Everything changed when you opened his present. Why?"  
  


"I don’t know!" John scowled.  
  


Mycroft steepled his fingers under his chin. “I think you do.”  
  


"I mean, a thought crossed my mind," John shook his head, "but it was ridiculous."  
  


"What has Sherlock said about the simplest explanation?"  
  


"About facts and deduction. Sherlock doesn’t do feelings!"  
  


"That’s where you are wrong, as usual. It’s rather amazing you have initiated relations with anyone.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Let’s go slow.”  
  


"I’m not a clot!" John growled.  
  


"Then use your brain. Sherlock’s gift you was…"  
  


"A watch," John finished.  
  


Mycroft closed his eyes with a sigh. “Sentimental. At least to you, yes?”  
  


"Absolutely. It was the nicest thing anyone has ever given me." John’s heart swelled at the memory.  
  


"And from him, that’s extraordinary," Mycroft nodded.   
  


"This is Sherlock though."  
  


"John, we’ve talked a little about his childhood, and Sebastian told you he was never well liked. All this is true. He had one friend until he discovered the friend’s father was having an affair which exposed a bastard child. Needless to say, the friend disappeared. He’s been lonely and shiftless for decades.” Mycroft stared at the falling snow. “He claims cocaine and heroin made him think and focus. It is my belief that it numbed his loneliness—a void. One that you have seamlessly filled. I was happy that he found a companion. I worried the day you would marry and leave him, but none of your dalliances have caused me much concern.”  
  


John frowned.  
  


"At least he had a friend. I knew…a deeper sentiment might never be possible for him." Mycroft swallowed.  
  


"Until Irene," John offered.  
  


Mycroft turned to stare him down with his beady eyes. “The day you fell through the floor. You remember, yes?”  
  


Of course John remembered; he suffered broken ribs, bruised bones and a concussion. He was laid up in the hospital for days with a nervous Sherlock pacing around his bed. The detective muttered and would not leave him to sleep. Even when he returned home, he had expected Mrs. Hudson to be the doting nursemaid—not Sherlock.   
  


"What about that night?" John leaned forward.  
  


"Did anything or anyone change?" Mycroft asked.  
  


Doting Sherlock. Nursemaid Holmes. The hand that clutched his arm as John’s consciousness ebbed and flowed was not Molly or Mrs. Hudson. It was a deep voice that muttered through his dreams. When he returned home, Sherlock did not take a case for weeks. He was uncharacteristically patient as John walked him through changing his dressings. John thought it was guilt. It was Sherlock’s idea to run into that dilapidated house without back up.  
  


"No, that was guilt or sense of responsibility," John shook his head.  
  


"I can assure you it was more than that. I stayed with him while he paced the halls. I prevented him from being arrested for disturbing the peace."  
  


John leaned back to look up at the snow covering the moonroof. Was Mycroft daft? Has all those years of keeping government secrets turned his mind to mush? The thought that Mycroft could be right scared John witless. Did Sherlock feel more than friendship towards him? Did he have physical feelings?  
  


Mycroft touched John’s knee. “I don’t believe he meant for anyone to know, least of all you. His gift to you was heartfelt and meant to be a private exchange. You wouldn’t have given it much thought beyond shock, and things would continue as they have. However in the presence of others, his feelings laid bare for intuitive people to see.”  
  


"That’s why he ran off," John nodded  
  


The elder Holmes nodded. “He is apprehensive about how you will respond to this new development.”  
  


Respond, John wondered. What was there to say? His best friend, his sociopathic mate had romantic and possible sexual feelings toward him. John felt a suppressed desire stir within.   
  


"Do you know where he is?" John asked.  
  


"He was last seen walking towards Baker Street." Mycroft glanced down at his mobile.  
  


"I should go home." John rubbed his eyes.  
  


"What will you say?" Mycroft asked.  
  


John shrugged. “I’ll follow his lead. If he wants to forget it, then I’ll do that—for him. I know this is not his area.”  
  


"So avoidance," Mycroft sniffed. "That sounds healthy."  
  


"You said he’s never done this before," John said.  
  


"And he never will again," Mycroft snorted.   
  


“Look, I don’t want to confront him if he’s not ready to deal with this. Something like that could push him right back to the drugs.” John countered.

 

Mycroft sighed as the car pulled up to Baker Street. “May I ask you to be careful? He’s fragile. He’s never….dealt with sentiment, or that kind of rejection.”  
  


Mycroft’s words stabbed at John’s heart. He would never want to hurt Sherlock. He wasn’t certain what to say when he reached flat B.  
  


"I have his best interest at heart, Mycroft," John vowed.  
  


"Let’s hope. Happy Christmas, Dr. Watson." Mycroft opened the door.  
  


John shuffled to the sidewalk. The snow was deeper than when he left the flat. He wondered if people had waited for their return. That could be awkward. And Lisa? She had called several times, but John couldn’t bring himself to listen to her multiple voicemails. He didn’t see movement in front of the windows. That was good. With a deep breath, he pushed through the front door. He paused in the front foyer to listen for voices or movement on the second floor. Mrs. Hudson’s windows were dark. It would just be him and Sherlock.   
  


What was he going to say? John’s heart raced as if injected with epinephrine. He would allow Sherlock to talk and take cues from him.   
  


John pressed his ear to the door. Silence. With a deep breath, he opened the door. The glow from the fireplace provided the only light in the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson and Molly must have straightened up a bit. He would have to tell them something. He recalled their collective gasp. Molly would purse her lips and say nothing, but Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t be able to hold her tongue.   
  


John froze as his eyes adjusted to the low light. Though she didn’t face him, he knew it was her.  
  


"What are you doing here?" he hissed. He glanced towards Sherlock’s room. "Is he here?"  
  


She turned her head. “John, how are you?”  
  


"What did you do with him?" John clenched his fist.   
  


"I listened, that is all," she answered.   
  


"Where is he?" John asked.  
  


"He’s not here. Please," she gestured to Sherlock’s empty chair, "sit." John choked on a laugh. "I know this is your chair, but I had a feeling you didn’t want to see me in his," she smiled.

 

She was right. He would have ripped her out by her hair. Still, John didn’t move.   
  


"Please John," she asked.  
  


John steamed as he eased himself into the chair across from her. Of course Irene was as beautiful as he remembered. Her cheekbones were almost as exquisite as Sherlock’s.   
  


"If he’s not here, I should be looking for him." John sat at the edge of the chair.  
  


"He’ll be home soon, which is why I am here.” She crossed her legs seductively.  
  


"Of course," John snorted. He sat back as if he couldn’t care what she had to say when he had so many questions that he was vibrating.  
  


"I’m not here for the reason you think," she said.  
  


"Why are you alive?" he blurted.  
  


She looked down. “I think you know why.”  
  


John shook his head angrily. “I can’t believe he saved you. After everything….”  
  


"After my great betrayal? If you recall, I was the one on the run after that. He won." She shrugged.  
  


"And yet he scurried after to save your bony arse," John spat.  
  


"You should know what that’s like. He’d cover heaven and hell to protect you," Irene said.  
  


John frowned. “He crossed the world for The Woman.”  
  


She chuckled. “John, your jealousy is showing.”  
  


"I’m not….jealous!" He huffed. "I’m  _concerned_.”  
  


She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, with how I threaten his attention to you. I can see you itching to throw me out this window. I’ll bet you burned every time I called. Your face is turning a lovely crimson right now.”  
  


"What do you want with him? Can’t you leave us…him alone?" He knew Irene caught his slip.  
  


"What’s best for him. That’s all I want."  
  


"Right. Him tied to your bedposts and at your mercy, is that what’s best for him?" John seethed.  
  


Irene smirked slightly before uncoiling her legs to lean closer. “You.”  
  


 

 

 

"What?"   
  


"You are what is best for him, John. That is why I came here tonight. I am very interested in what makes him happy."  
  


John’s vision blurred. What was she trying to play?   
  


"What I need from you, John, is for you to see it too,” Irene said.   
  


He shook his head. “I’m sorry, what just happened here?”  
  


"You were in perfect rage thinking that I was after your beloved Sherlock. Tell me, did you want to strike me when you saw me here?” she settled back in the chair.  
  


"I’d never strike a woman." Yet his hand was still clenched.   
  


"That is not what I asked. Did you  _want_ to? Thinking I was here to ravage Sherlock? Did you think he and I made passionate love? That we whispered endearments into each other’s damp skin as we climbed toward—”  
  


"Enough!" John shouted. "Fine, I wanted you out. Why didn’t he tell me he saved you? Why was it a secret?"  
  


"For my protection and his. If it was discovered he was the one that pulled me out of that terror cell, everyone in his life would be in danger—including you. He hated keeping that secret from you."   
  


"And now? Why are you back in London if you are in danger?" John rubbed his forehead wearily. Where was Sherlock?  
  


"The United States did me a favour by destroying that cell. It allowed me to return to London, and to Kate," she smiled.  
  


John looked up. "Kate?"   
  


"My lover of five years." Kate, the woman who answered the door and the woman who summoned him. 

 

"But you said you wanted Sherlock…" John stammered. "All that dinner business."  
  


A perfectly manicured nail trailed across the hem of her black skirt. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wouldn’t like one night with him. But I do not interest him in the slightest. I think you understand me, John. You did just have a chat with big brother.”  
  


John thought about what Mycroft had told him. When he saw Irene in the flat, he had completely forgotten he was readying himself for a conversation about Sherlock’s supposed feelings.  
  


"I’m moving to France where they value privacy. Do you have cameras everywhere too?" John examined the dark corners on the bookshelves.  
  


"I have similar friends to Sherlock who update me on my interests." Irene grinned.  
  


"I thought Kate was your interest." John was thoroughly confused.  
  


"Sherlock saved me. He will always interest me. I take his happiness seriously." She checks the slender gold watch on her wrist. "In fact, we don’t have much time. I’m not sure he would be pleased to see me here with you."  
  


"Why?" John wished he had more to drink during the party.  
  


"You know he’s seen me recently. What did you think we were doing?" she asked.  
  


He scowled. “I have no idea.”  
  


"What did you fear? You hated the idea that we were having sex," Irene prodded.  
  


It was true. His stomach burned when she called. His skin crawled when Sherlock returned home with her perfume on his coat. Was he jealous? Maybe?  
  


She rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe he thinks you are clever. John, he came to see me out of desperation. After your accident, something in him changed. He felt for you. His emotions startled him and he came to me.”  
  


"For what? To turn him straight again?" John shrugged.  
  


She chuckled. “He didn’t want to  _feel_. He wanted to rid himself of his feelings for you. Watching you bed those vapid women ate him alive. He’s in love with you,John.”  
  


Heat spread from John’s chest and radiated to every part of him. He felt a bit woozy, but he mostly felt relief and joy. It went beyond learning that Irene and Sherlock were not shagging.   
  


"And you love him," Irene said pointedly.  
  


"He’s my best friend, of course I love him," John said casually.  
  


She leaned forward in the chair again to search John’s eyes. “You need to really search yourself. The key to a wonderful world is in your hand. Everything you’ve buried for years is ready for you. He came to me looking to find a solution, a way to release himself. He was quite shocked when I told him to embrace them.”  
  


John blinked. “He doesn’t want to have…”  
  


"He’s afraid of being rejected, just like you are," Irene blurted with exasperation. "John, I’ve known you were in love with him the moment I met you. And it is not the wholesome friend love. Deep inside, you have a desire for him that matches his for you. I’m here to tell you to let go."  
  


John’s mouth hung open. Graceful as a swan, Irene stood from the chair.   
  


"He’s scared of what you think of him. That present was meant to be a moment between just the two of you. He’s afraid that he humiliated you in front of your friends and you’ll not forgive him."  
  


"He told you all that?" John rose from his seat.  
  


"He didn’t have to." She pats John’s cheek. "Be gentle with him."  
  


John watched her sweep across the room. She turned back to glance over her shoulder.  
  


"But if I was you, maybe a little less gentle," and with a smirk she was gone.  
  


John swept a hand through his hair as he tried to absorb the last few hours. Two people—no, four people—had told John that Sherlock loved him. He leaned against the table.  _Sherlock loved him._  The room tilted to the left as the words sunk in.

   
John had never associated himself with being gay, but he had been intimate with men before. It had been years since one had piqued his interest. Then he met Sherlock, with his silver eyes and sinful lips. The day Mike introduced them, a hot spike ran down John’s spine. It took everything in him to not react when John heard Sherlock smooth voice. It was as if it coiled itself around him. In that split second, John hoped he would see this man again. No, he would move in with this strange enigma. Every day thereafter, John would fight against the attraction to Sherlock that threatened to bloom.   
  


John hadn’t been with man in a long time. Had Sherlock ever been with someone? Mycroft made it seem like Sherlock had never been with anyone. What about the years Sherlock used drugs? Did he ever….? The thought of anyone touching Sherlock while he was altered turned John’s stomach. 

 

John walked to the window and peered at the desolate street below.  _Where are you, Sherlock?_  The snow fell lightly now.  _He doesn’t have a coat_ , John worried. The man didn’t have a ounce of fat to keep him warm. John slipped his hand in his pockets and felt the embossed metal disc inside. With a heavy sigh, he pulled the watch out. Its resemblance to his father’s was extraordinary. A smile crept up on him. Sherlock remembered how John stared at the watch transfixed while the detective questioned the shopkeeper. Johns turned the watch over in his hands. This gift was meant to be given in private, Irene said. Had Sherlock planned to confess his feelings? John nearly kicked himself for contemplating that. Had he expected John to understand the significance?

 

John’s head thundered with all the questions swirling around. The stairs above him creaked. Someone was in his room. The creaking stopped halfway down. It was possible Sherlock hid upstairs while Irene and John talked.   
  


"Sherlock?" he called.  
  


The steps drew closer. John held his breath. He thought of all the things he wanted to ask, all the years he had suppressed his attraction. He ran an unsteady hand over his head.  
  


A bleary-eyed Lisa appeared around the corner. “Where you talking to someone?”  
  


She wore one of his vests that barely covered the tops of her thighs. Usually a sight like this would fuel his arousal, but tonight it just annoyed him.  
  


"Talking to myself," John muttered.   
  


Lisa frowned. “Sounded like quite the conversation.”  
  


"Why are you still here?" John shed his jacket. He’d forgotten he still had it on.  
  


"I was waiting for you. Plus someone had to clean up. A bit rude for both hosts to leave on the middle," she clucked in a disapproving tone.  
  


"Thank you," John murmured.  
  


"Where did you go?" Lisa crossed her arms in front of her chest.  
  


"To look for Sherlock. He left without his coat." John wandered over to the window. The snow was picking up again, covering Baker Street in a blanket of undisturbed white. The streets were desolate. Where was Sherlock?  
  


He glanced down at his phone. Five text messages—none from Sherlock.  
  


"Why did he leave?" Lisa sat on the sofa.  
  


John couldn’t tell her it was because Sherlock was in love with him. John needed to hear from him directly to truly believe it. Why would someone as brilliant and gorgeous as Sherlock love someone as ordinary as John? It made absolutely no sense.  
  


John could only shrug. He looked at Lisa curled up on his sofa as if she belonged there. Why had she stayed? They hadn’t planned to have Christmas morning together.   
  


"Come to bed." Lisa extended her hand to him. "It’s late. He’ll be fine."  
  


John sensed that even Lisa knew something was terribly off. She must have heard Anderson’s comment.   
  


The front door closed and familiar footfalls trudged up the stairs. John braced himself. He wished he had ushered Lisa upstairs sooner. There was a pause on the landing. He could practically picture Sherlock with his hand on the door knob as he contemplated what to do next.   
  


Sherlock’s head was down. His hunched shoulders shivered violently. His suit jacket was soaked through and his hands were bright red from exposure.  
  


"Sherlock." John rushed over.  
  


Curls were pressed against uncharacteristically rouge cheeks. “John,” he said roughly.  
  


Sherlock looked over to see Lisa curled up on the sofa in one of John’s ratty vests.  
  


He straightened his back and cleared his throat. The desperate and beaten look on his face slipped into an impenetrable mask.   
  


"I just came for my coat. I won’t bother you tonight," he said icily.  
  


 

 

John grabbed his arm. “You’re not going anywhere.”

 

"Really, I’d rather just—" Sherlock attempted to pull out of John’s grasp.  
  


"No!" John ordered.   
  


Sherlock stilled.  
  


"You’re frozen solid." John softened his tone.  
  


"Really, John." Sherlock tugged on his arm. "I don’t need mothering. Just let me get my—”  
  


"No, Sherlock." John dropped his voice to let Sherlock know that he was not leaving the flat. "You are going to get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia. You’re going to take a warm, not hot shower. I’ll have your tea ready."  
  


Sherlock’s eyes looked beyond John to Lisa. “But…”  
  


John stepped closer. “Do not argue. Go.”  
  


 

 

 

He gave Sherlock a gentle shove toward the bathroom. With a nod, Sherlock started off down the hall, giving one glance at Lisa and John over his shoulder.  
  


John rubbed his eyes with his palms before moving into the kitchen to put on the kettle. He couldn’t forget the fleeting look of hope on Sherlock’s face—right before he saw Lisa. It was like a stone curtain closed Sherlock off from him. When Sherlock was out of the shower and by the fire, John would give him the space to talk. However, it could not be avoided for much longer. No matter the outcome, they would be stronger for this.   
  


A cough from the sofa brought John out of his thoughts. There was still Lisa—in his vest and looking at him from under dark lashes on a stormy Christmas Eve.


	5. December Will Be Magic Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock knows that John has questions. Can he avoid the conversation he needs to have?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I HATE that I didn't meet my self-imposed deadline. I hope the next few chapters are worth the wait. Thank you for viewing, for the kudos and always the comments. They really get me through my day and chronic self-doubt.
> 
> Again, thank you to my editor/fluffer (ego people) Michelle and one of my biggest and ardent fans Irene.

  
Sherlock did as he was told and shuffled into the bathroom. He was glad that John ordered him to stay. The thought of going back out into the cold made his bones ache. He peeled off the cold, wet clothes and turned the hot water to scalding. Tentatively, he ran his hand under the stream and immediately understood why John instructed warm and not hot. He hated John being right--especially tonight.

The warm water felt like pins in his skin, and he swore he saw steam rise up from his frozen body. It had been foolish to leave without his coat. He'd had no intention of taking a long walk, but once gone, found that he couldn't go back to face their whispers, gasps, and stares. If Johnhadn't known when Sherlock flew out of the flat, someone must have clued him in. However, he was too cold to truly observe John when he returned. When it came to his flatmate, there were many things Sherlock could not deduce.

Over the hiss of the shower, Sherlock heard voices. Well, one distinctive female voice. Lydia was always a bit brash, but the candor appeared excitable. Then Sherlock heard heavy footsteps clomping up to John's room, and pacing. The footfalls were scattered but deliberate.  
  


A fight? Sherlock dared to hope that Lindsey would be gone when he emerged. Four minutes later, there was stomping down not one, but two sets of stairs, followed by the front door slamming shut. Lisa had left the building.

  
That led to another problem--John was free to talk. At least with Lana there, Sherlock could excuse himself to his room in an attempt to delete the night. He was certain that Mycroft had visited John, by the mere fact that his brother had not bothered him. He knew Mycroft could find him if he wished to do so, yet Mycroft chose to go to John. Most likely to divulge Sherlock's deep secret. Of course he needn't tell his older brother that he was head over heels in love with the doctor. Mycroft just knew. Sherlock could only hope that Mycroft merely hinted in hopes John would arrive to the proper conclusion on his own.

"When you're dressed, your tea will be ready," John said as Sherlock opened the bathroom door.

Sherlock nodded and darted for his bedroom. Avoidance. Start a conversation about anything else at all. It was doubtful that Laura went to the chemist and would be back. And if she never came back, it was certain to be Sherlock's fault.

What Sherlock really wanted to do was have a proper sulk in bed and drink his tea in peace. He hoped that John would grant him that. Sherlock took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen.

"It's there," John motioned to the mug by his chair.

Sherlock nodded once. John didn't look up from preparing his own tea.

The moment he sank into his chair he smelled it. Irene had been here tonight. Sherlock's stomach curled up in a tight knot. Mycroft might stay quiet out of familial duty, but Irene was a looser cannon. She had implored for him to confess to John. Sherlock scoffed and muttered something about ‘it not being a romance novel.’ Irene had also tried to feed his head with nonsense about John having the same inclination toward Sherlock. She was absolutely convinced of it. It didn't matter how many girls John had dated and bedded, Irene was absolutely certain he was in love with Sherlock. There were times when Sherlock left Irene’s flat with high hopes. And then he'd return to the flat to find Louise wrapped around John like a boa constrictor.

Sherlock sipped his hot tea and attempted to tamp down the panic that was rising inside him. John poked at the fire before he sat across from Sherlock to blow on his own tea.

After a few moments of quiet, John said, "For a genius, it was pretty stupid to run off without your coat."

"Not one of my better executed exits," Sherlock replied coolly.

  


 

John opened his mouth, then turned to fire. "Where did you go?"

"For some air. It was stifling in here with all the holiday cheer." Sherlock feigned annoyance.

John glances at his wristwatch. "Ten minutes is some air. Three hours is something else."

Sherlock stood abruptly and wished he could flee again. He walked over to the desk and pondered the violin. Nothing ended a conversation quicker than the discordant screech of strings. His fingers were too stiff from wandering in the cold to play.

"Where did you go for three hours without your coat?”

The snow had tapered to flurries. Sherlock still couldn't make a quick getaway in his pyjamas. It was one thing to run out without a coat and proper footwear. It was clear that John did not believe Sherlock's explanation nor was he going to drop the subject.

"Irene said she was with you," John remarked lightly.

"So she came here?" He stared out the window.

"You know that she did. If I can still smell her, you certainly can." John crossed his legs.

Sherlock's heart raced. "I know what you think...."

"I really don't think you do. Okay, I did at one time, and I am not sure I should trust her when she said that you are not lovers." John cleared his throat.

Sherlock glanced over. This was his way out, perhaps. Yes, it was a lie and he was certain John would never really believe him. Yet it was better than admitting the truth.

"Clearly, she lied to you."

"So you ran off to shag her then? Give her a proper rogering?" John shifted in his chair.

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the empty street again. He always has a hard time lying to John's face. "Yes, we've been 'dating' for weeks. If you can date, then so can I." He tilted his chin in defiance.

"Of course you can date. Interesting that she told me her life partner was Kate." Amusement laced John's voice.

Sherlock mentally slapped himself. This is what sentiment did to his mind. He couldn't focus. His lies made no sense. "Well....."

John stood. "Well....."

Sherlock swallowed the dry lump in his throat. "We-we love each other..."

"You actually cringed when you said that." John crossed his arms.

Sherlock waved him away. "Believe what you want." John always hated it when he was dismissive. Perhaps he would leave him alone if he maintained that tone.

"Why didn't you tell me she was alive?"

"It was dangerous for anyone to know." That was the truth.

"Why did you save her?"

"She needed help and she can be a good asset to have around, for the most part." He looked out the window again. Tomorrow, he would write a scathing email to Irene for betraying his trust.

John fixed him with a steely state. "You knew it bothered me when she got back in touch."

"Well, you knew I was in love with her and was worried I would get hurt. I am here to tell you we are perfectly blissful in our coupling." Sherlock passed a hand through his hair with a shrug.

"You are a terrible liar, Sherlock--at least to me." John actually smiled."Do you want to know what she told me?"

"Please do not take anything she said as fact." Sherlock knew there was no way to stop this.

"I would tend to agree, but she was earnest. As was Mycroft," John said.

"Oh, bugger to Mycroft. He just sets out to ruin my life in any way possible." Flee. It was the last course. "This is ridiculous. I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

  


 

"Okay, fine. Happy Christmas." John turned to the fire.

Sherlock felt equal parts relieved and upset. “You too, John."

With a quick nod, he moved across the sitting room--solitude just at the end of the hall.

John caught his arm. "Why did you give me the watch?"

"I thought you would like it--it seemed important to you." John's grip was firm but not painful.

"Why didn't you want me to open it?" John searched his face.

Sherlock shrugged with a smirk. "We can't let the entire world know I might have a heart."

John cocked an eyebrow. "And that's it? No other reason?" He sighed when Sherlock nodded. His grip loosened. "When were you going to give it to me?"

"Tomorrow morning." Sherlock’s bravado began to slip.

"When it was just the two of us?" He licked his lips.

"Well, it would not have been with her staying over." Sherlock nodded to the spot on the sofa she had occupied when he walked in.

"What?"

"Excuse me, I misspoke. I didn't expect that Leigh would spend the night." How dare John question his motives when that woman had taken residence in their home?

"Neither did I," John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Was she not here in your shirt and nothing else ten minutes ago?"

"Not by my design," John said. "And she's not here now, is she?"

"Something you'll blame me for. Another relationship ruined by Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock snapped.

"Yes, but that's not the subject right now," John replied calmly.

"It's not? You're not angry that I interrupted your Christmas Eve intercourse with my petulant behavior? Or maybe I didn't. Perhaps you got that out of the way before I came home." Sherlock loathed that the image crossed his mind, but he had to know.

  


 

"You know that is the not the case. If that had happened, you'd have 'observed that' and your nose would do that wrinkle thing it does when you find something distasteful," John explained.  
  


Sherlock hated when John was being clever at his expense. "The stench of intimacy is unpleasant."

John flinched slightly. "That's right, intimacy is disgusting. Why would two people ever want to touch each other?" He dropped Sherlock's arm.

"It's all transport." Sherlock raised his chin in defiance. He felt victorious and defeated all at once.

John threw his hands up. "You are insufferable. I think both Irene and Mycroft got you completely wrong. To think I actually thought...."

Sherlock whirled around. "What did you think?"

"Never mind." John stalked toward the kitchen. He stopped suddenly.

"For your information, I ran out after you. I spent two hours walking the streets of London looking for your arse. That's why you don't smell the unpleasant stench of body fluids. I came home to Lisa here. That's when you walked in. I didn't invite her to stay, I tossed my now-most-likely ex-girlfriend out of my flat on Christmas Eve, and not only that, but in the middle of a snowstorm," he raged.

"Why?" The roughness in his voice surprised Sherlock.

John turned away. "I-I-I don't know. For you! It's always for you. You call and I come. I always put you first, before my friends, my lovers and even myself."

Sherlock felt they were on the edge of large shift. He wished he knew what direction this was all headed. This was a problem he couldn't deduce because it involved sentiment.  _You have one shot at this_ , Sherlock told himself.

"It was not my intention to..." A shaky hand smoothed back his hair.

"It never is your intention." John glared. Sherlock felt pinned to the spot by the intensity around them."Is it true?"

  


 

Sherlock blinked and glanced elsewhere. "Is what true?"

John tilted his head. "You know what I'm talking about. Molly, Mrs. Hudson....they saw it. Mycroft and Irene...."

"I want to go to bed." It was too much. He was ill-prepared for this type of confrontation. Sherlock felt everything want to shut down.

"You never sleep," John remarked lightly.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. "I don't want to talk about this."

"We need to!" John's voice echoed off the walls of the flat.

"Why? Everything is crumbling! Don't you see?" Sherlock's eyes flew open."Let's just forget tonight. Forget the watch. It was just a gift…nothing more. Don't go looking for deeper meaning. I thought you--you would like it. You do. End of story."

John took a step back while Sherlock began to pace with unfocused eyes.

"I will not impede on your relationships. I hope you find someone who makes you happy."

Sherlock saw a smile quirk up on John's lips. Was he taunting him? Did he enjoy watching as Sherlock tore himself in two?

  


 

"I have, but I've been too stubborn and afraid to notice." He took a deep breath and crossed to where Sherlock stood. "Sherlock, look at me. Do you love me?"

All the heat drained from Sherlock’s body.

"Me...love? I mean, I have feelings for you that lie outside of the normal flatmate relationship. And they might push the envelope on friendship..." He could not meet John's gaze. Instead, he focused on spot of food on John's jumper.

"Bugger all," John muttered. With a shake of his head, he stepped into Sherlock's personal space. He could feel John's breath on his neck. "Sherlock," he whispered.

He couldn't lift his head; he knew John would see the words  _I love you desperately_  written on his face.

Quickly, John pressed forward--then John's dry lips were on his. There was no movement just the sensation of lips--John’s lips. A warm hand curled around his neck. Sherlock allowed his body to relax into John's touch.

"Do you love me?" John whispered against Sherlock's cheek.

"I can't say for certain as I've never experienced an emotion this profound before, so perhaps it is love." Sherlock shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I don't...."

John brought his other hand to Sherlock's face to draw him to his lips. This was not the press of dry lips a minute ago. John's mouth was wet and hot. Instinctively, Sherlock opened his mouth to accept whatever John had to offer. The heat that had left his body returned like an inferno. John moved closer and slipped his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock felt his mind short circuit with too much data, yet he wanted to catalogue the feel of John's mouth, the taste of his breath and texture of his tongue.

Wait...was this happening?

Sherlock pushed away and blinked rapidly. "John, wait....you are not homosexual."

"No, but I have found men attractive in the past." John's breath was uneven.

"So you find me....." Sherlock started.

  


 

John smiled as his hand rested alongside Sherlock's neck. "You are the most gorgeous human being that I have ever set eyes on."


	6. All I Want for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally Christmas day

  
Sherlock curled his hand into John’s jumper and crushed their mouths together in a messy and awkward kiss. He knew he was crap at this. If he'd ever thought he would have the opportunity to kiss John Watson, perhaps he would have found subjects for practice. Then he would have been able to deliver a kiss to make John’s knees weak instead of this uncoordinated mash of lips. He was trying to get as close as he could by way of John’s mouth. But the thought of even practicing on someone else felt like cheating on his beloved blogger.  
Sherlock wrenched his mouth away. “Wait…Linda….”

  


 

John smiled sweetly. “It’s Lisa, and it would never have worked. When we first met," John gestured between them, “God I wanted you. One, because you’re beautiful. Two, because you’re brilliant, and three, because you were unattainable. When you told me you were married to your work, and then you demonstrated that by never showing interest in anyone, I just…I just shoved my feelings down until they were as platonic as I could make them.” The smile slipped to a frown. “Then came Irene, and you were interested…”

“I knew you were jealous, but I thought it was because of my attention shifting.” Adrenaline pumped through Sherlock’s body. He hadn't felt this high since his last hit of cocaine years ago.

“It was that, and the fact I was absolutely convinced you wanted her physically, in a way that you’d never want me,” John said. It was a relief to tell Sherlock things he had bottled up for years. 

“John.” Sherlock pulled him into another kiss. This time, he slowed down to fully enjoy the slide of John’s lips against his and push-pull of tongues exploring. 

John’s fingers wound in Sherlock’s damp curls. Sherlock wanted to get closer, but his erection was evident through his cotton pyjamas. He felt betrayed by his body, cheapening what was meant to be a lovely moment and not just filled with lust. Oh, but he did want to be touched, to feel John’s skin against his. He'd had one or two fumblings in school, but those had been just quick, humiliating hand jobs.

Suddenly Sherlock felt out of his depth. He was the smartest man in every room, but woefully ignorant when it came to sex. “I need a moment,” he whispered unsteadily.

While he took a few breaths, John’s lips traveled down his neck, gently sucking Sherlock’s skin. An embarrassing moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth.

“You like this?” John’s mouth smiled against the hollow of the detective’s neck. 

“I like anything you do. Don’t stop.” Sherlock clung to John’s shoulders.

  


 

“We have all the time in the world. You set the pace,” John said.

Sherlock knew that he should slow down. John was right; they had time to do this part correctly. At least until Sherlock inevitably messed it up. He never thought that they would be at this point, and he had never considered what came next. Sherlock knew nothing about being in a romantic relationship, let alone how to be sexual. Over the past few months, he had become aware of his desires and had often imagined acting on them. Now the flesh and blood was just under his fingertips, and he wanted everything. 

John tilted Sherlock’s face so he could capture his gaze. “Where did you just go? Don’t go into the Self-loathing room in your mind palace.”

Sherlock smirked. “How do you know there’s a room for that?”

“I’ve lived with you for years. I’ve seen you disappear into that room when a case goes bad,” John said. “I have wanted this for so long, Sherlock. Don’t think I’m having doubts.” John looked at his shoes. “Are you?”

Sherlock pressed his pelvis against John’s stomach. “Does it feel like I’m having doubts?”

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John gulped.

  


 

“I know we can take our time. In fact, we most likely should. I do not want to. I want everything and I want it tonight, as soon as possible,” Sherlock growled.

“Christ, I’ve wanted you.” John captured Sherlock's full lips again. His cock throbbed against Sherlock’s thigh, grinding for friction.

Two large hands grabbed John’s arse and pressed him closer. “I want to disappear inside you,” Sherlock murmured against John’s neck.

“Fuck,” he groaned as he fought to get his jumper over his head. 

Sherlock’s shaky fingers worked on the wooden buttons of John’s shirt. “You wear too many layers,” Sherlock whined.

“I have to admit that I’m disappointed you’re not wearing one of your ridiculously tight shirts. I’ve dreamt of stripping them off you.” John tugged at Sherlock’s grey vest.

“Next time.” Sherlock unbuckled John’s belt. The sensation of his long fingers brushing against his cock temporarily caused John to stutter in his task of undressing his flatmate.

Sherlock pushed John’s jeans to his ankles. He couldn’t help but stare at the strong thighs that lead to the bulge in John’s tight blue pants. 

“I want to see you,” he whispered.

John swallowed hard. “Then take them off.”

Tentatively, Sherlock dipped his fingers into the waistband. He closed his eyes and pulled them down. 

Fingers brushed his cheek. “Why did you close your eyes?” John asked softly.

He didn’t know why. He thought of this moment for months, and suddenly it was overwhelming. He looked into John’s eyes, then let his eyes explore downward. He could finally see the white raised flesh on John’s shoulder that curled into a knot. He didn’t linger there long knowing John felt subconscious about the scar. Sherlock dropped his gaze to the chest and stomach.

“Please touch me or something. I feel a bit on display,” John chuckled nervously.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sherlock shook his head. 

“Trust me, you can’t go wrong,” John reassured him. The skin was softer than Sherlock expected and the flesh was firmer under his fingers. He rubbed circles with his thumbs over John’s nipples--delighted that they hardened under his touch. He enjoyed the hitches in John's breath as Sherlock added pressure and grazed them with his nail. He finally gathered enough strength to follow the dark hair the trailer from John’s navel downward.   
Sherlock had seen penises before. He had gone to an all boy’s boarding school. He had manually stimulated himself with another student once before being called a freak. He performed many unauthorised autopsies on males.   
But John’s erect penis was the most incredible thing he had ever seen. His fingers rested on John’s hips. 

“I’ve never touched…” Sherlock felt ridiculous.

“A penis?” John asked.

“Not in a sexual way.” Sherlock’s cheeks burned.

“Sherlock, what you’re brother said…you know…about being...” John stumbled over his words.

Sherlock’s hands dropped to his side. How could he ever satisfy Three Continents Watson with absolutely no sexual experience? He didn’t know the first thing about pleasing John. 

“I’m sorry, John. I don’t have the first clue about this. The genius is out of his dept. I told you this was not my area. I can’t be what you deserve.” Sherlock turned away.

“Hey, stop that.” John grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder. “You are all I want. We can take this slow.”

“I want to plunge into ecstasy. I want to give you an earth shattering orgasm.” Sherlock hung his head. "You’ve had sex with both women and men I presume?”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressed himself against his lean back. “I’ve never made love to another man. I’ve experienced some sex acts at university and during my time in the Army.” 

John’s hand slipped under Sherlock’s shirt. “I’ve never lain completely naked with another man. I’ve never wanted another man--no, another person--as much as I want you. Please, don’t run away now.” 

Sherlock felt John’s erection against the curve of his arse. He pushed back against it. John’s finger danced over his ribs to close around his nipple. Sherlock gasped as the sensation went straight to his cock. 

“Get this off,” John ordered.

Quickly, Sherlock pulled his shirt over his head. The feel of John’s hot, bare skin against his nearly buckled his knees. 

Through his pyjama pants, he felt John’s wet tip nudge him. His hips rocked back against it, wanting more. Lips pressed wet kisses along his shoulders and spine. Sherlock tried to turn in John’s arms.

“No, stay like this,” John whispered, enjoying the friction against Sherlock’s perfect arse. He knew these pyjamas were the only thing between them now. Slipping his hand under the waistband, he smiled against Sherlock’s back when he heard a gasp. His fingers brushed over coarse hairs before he found Sherlock’s hot cock. 

“Oh John,” Sherlock groaned, reaching behind him to bring John flush against his back. 

John wrapped one hand around Sherlock’s cock. It was like him, long and slender, most assuredly beautiful. His other hand pinched Sherlock’s taut nipples. He loved having the usually cool detective writhing against him. However, John wanted to see the ecstasy on his flatmate’s face. He whirled Sherlock to face him and planted a quick kiss on those plump lips before he dropped to his knees. 

Sherlock gasped as cold air hit his aching penis. The image of John on his knees, just inches from taking him in his mouth, nearly finished Sherlock.  
John had never done this. At university, he had a fellow rugby player wank him off. He, of course,had returned the favour. In the army, he had a red head soldier suck him off behind a building. It was rough and rushed. He chose not to return that favour, roughly pulling on the soldier's cock before he was asked for more. Luckily, John never saw him again. There had been very few men John thought about swallowing, but he revisited the thought of Sherlock often-- almost nightly when he first moved in.

He looked up at Sherlock, who was holding his breath in anticipation. Green eyes peered out under dark curls. John licked the tip of the most amazing penis he had ever seen. It was salty but not unpleasant. He swirled his tongue under the foreskin. 

“John.” Sherlock grabbed the doctor’s shoulders for balance. He watched his penis disappear between John’s lip. His slick fist never felt like this. John’s tongue worked along the vein as he eased his mouth from tip to base. Sherlock felt his bollocks tighten. He was close, too close. John’s hand wrapped around the shaft as his tongue swirled rapidly. No, not yet. Sherlock tried to push him away, but John was in a trance. He grabbed a fistful of blonde hair and tugged back. 

"John, stop,” he gasped.

“I’m sorry, did you not want that?” John asked nervously.

“I don’t want it over that soon.” Sherlock folded himself over John. They collapsed on the rug between their chairs. Sherlock kicked his pyjamas off while John fought with his boots. They laughed as they wrestled with a tangle of John’s jeans. 

Sherlock’s large hand pressed against John’s chest to ease him back on the rug. Instinct replaced experience as his lips closed over John’s nipple. He licked, sucked and nipped while John thrust against his stomach. 

“Sherlock, you’re amazing.” John moaned. 

John felt Sherlock lift himself up, and their cocks slot together. Sherlock moved against John as he bent to kiss him hard.  _I could come from this_ , John thought. The slide of Sherlock’s skin and muscles under John’s hands prickled every part of him. He tossed his head back and thrust his hips up for more contact.   
Sherlock shifted lower as he planted wet kisses down John’s throat, chest and stomach. He savoured the lingering sweat in the hollow of John’s hip. Wrapping his hand around John, he took a cautious taste of the tip. Briny but with a sweet undertone, like John. He was thicker than himself and Sherlock dropped his jaw to accommodate the girth.

Finally, John was able to grasp those curls in the manner he had imagined. He focused on keeping still and not deep throat Sherlock during his first attempt at oral sex. 

“You’re delicious,” Sherlock hummed.

For someone who claimed to be a virgin, Sherlock was incredibly adept in fellatio. John wondered if perhaps he wasn’t the novice he claimed. But this was Sherlock who researched tirelessly. The thought of Sherlock browsing gay porn sites nearly pushed him over. John didn’t want to come like this. It was too selfish. Yet when Sherlock cradled his bollocks while pressing a finger just underneath, John moaned so loud his throat hurt. He was so close. Glancing down to see dark curls bob between his thighs didn’t help calm him. 

“Stop,” he rasped. “Please.”

“Am I doing it wrong?” 

Sherlock’s worried eyes broke his heart. “No, I’m so close.”

Sherlock’s obscenely red lips curled into an impish grin before swallowing John whole again. He hummed and John knew he couldn’t stop this anymore. When the tip of his cock brushed the back of Sherlock’s throat, John wound his fingers in the luscious curls. Sherlock didn’t gag, but hummed with increasing intensity. John tried to move, but Sherlock pinned his hips to the floor.

“Oh Christ! Sherlock!” He cried loud enough for all the neighbours to hear as he filled his flatmate’s mouth. 

He was still panting as Sherlock kissed his way back up to nestle John’s neck.

“Research always pays off, John,” he purred.

“I’m a believer,” John sighed. “The thought of you watching porn nearly did me in.”

“And my lack of a gag reflex.” He raised his eyebrows.

John did something he had never ever done after receiving a blow job, he shoved his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth. He could taste himself mingled with mint and smoke. Sherlock’s erection poked his side. “We need to take care of you,” he said between kisses.

“Touch me. I won’t take long,” Sherlock mumbled.

“You said you wanted everything. I want that too.” He rolled to his side so he could press himself into Sherlock.

“What are you suggesting, Doctor?” His hand slid to cup John’s arse.

“I want to feel you inside me. That’s how I want you to come.” John’s teeth grazed his ear.

“Words like that will finish me.” Sherlock rolled on top of John and kissed him so hard his lips hurt.”I’ve never had penetrative intercourse. I never researched that.”

John took his hand. “I’ve never done that either. We can learn together.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Do you have a lubricant?” John asked.

“For sex?”

“When you touch yourself,” John said. “Do you use something?” 

Sherlock held up his left hand. “Just this and,” he pointed to his temple,”this. Never underestimate the power of the imagination.”

John leaned up to run his tongue over Sherlock’s swollen lips. “You’re so fucking sexy, you’ve no idea. I have something, I think.”

“No, stay here. I have an idea.” Sherlock hopped up and dashed to the bathroom. 

John enjoyed watching Sherlock’s arse wiggle away. He had caught glimpses of it when Sherlock paraded around in a sheet. John had to be discreet when his flatmate lounged in only a silk dressing gown. Tonight, Sherlock’s lithe body was lit by firelight and Christmas lights--and John’s eyes could linger as long as they liked. 

With flushed cheeks, Sherlock returned with a tub of petroleum jelly. “I imagine this would work?”

“For our first time, this would be good.” He grabbed Sherlock’s hand. “Come here.”

They kissed languidly as Sherlock’s flagging erection hardened once more. Enough time had passed since John’s orgasm that he was hard again. Soon, they were gasping for air and rutting against each there like schoolboys.

“I want you now,” John panted. “I don’t want to wait.”

Sherlock pressed messy, almost pornographic kisses against John’s neck. “Are you sure? This will hurt.” 

“First time always does. It will be a good kind of hurt.” He led Sherlock’s hand to his cock. “Touch me.”

Sherlock grinned hungrily. “I want to taste you again. You’re my new favourite thing to eat.” He stroked John slowly. 

“How should we do this?”

John rolled over to his stomach and raised up on all fours. 

“Gorgeous.” Sherlock kissed the dip in his spine. He nipped at a left butt cheek while his hand slipped under to cup John’s bollocks. “Do you have a condom?”

“I want to feel everything. Nothing between us.” John shook his head.

Sherlock shivered with anticipation. He closed his eyes to clear his mind and calm himself down before he came far too soon; not an easy task with John pushing back against his hand.

“But the drugs,” Sherlock protested.

“It’s been years and you’ve been tested.” John widened his legs.

“How did you know?” Sherlock asked.

“Mycroft had you tested every time you wound up in the hospital.”

Sherlock scowled. “I should have known, invasive arse.”

“Can we get back to what’s important? That being my arse in your face…just waiting for you to fuck me,” John said. 

“Such language, John.” He smoothed a hand over his buttocks, his thumb grazing the crack.

John hissed and bucked. “Please, Sherlock. I’m so hard.”

Despite his nervousness, Sherlock’s focus was sharp. He dipped his fingers into the petroleum jelly and applied a generous dollop to his penis. 

John flinched a little when Sherlock smeared the cold jelly around his entrance.

“Are you certain? We don’t have to do this,” Sherlock said as he knelt behind John. 

“Shut up and fuck me, please.” He ordered.

John’s captain voice went straight to Sherlock’s cock. With one hand gripping John’s hip, he positioned his tip at John's entrance. Everything would change once he pressed into John. Neither had done this before and it was another adventure they would take together. The significance weighed on Sherlock’s mind, and he wanted to be perfect for John.

John made the first move and pushed back until the tip breached him. It burned, as he knew it would. He wanted to feel that fire all the way inside him. He pushed back harder in the hope Sherlock would move.

Sherlock bit his lip and grabbed the other hip. Slowly, he thrust forward entering John’s body. The sight of his penis disappearing inside his best friend was enough to make him explode. 

“More.” John pushed again.

“Jesus,” Sherlock groaned. The hot tightness around his penis was nothing like his own fist or John’s mouth. He never imagined intercourse could be like this. A part of him wondered why he waited so long, but a larger part was glad he could give himself to John.

As he was ordered, Sherlock moved deeper inside of John. He stopped every time he heard a hiss or groan escape John’s lips.

“You feel so good,” John gasped.

“But it’s hurting you,” Sherlock breathed.

“It’s a good pain. Move faster, harder.” John swung his arm back to grab the back of Sherlock’s thigh.”Fuck me into this floor.”

Sherlock never liked John’s use of profanity, but in this instance with his cock inside the blogger, it flipped a feral switch. Digging his fingers into John’s skin, he pumped into his now lover. His lover. The thought tumbled around Sherlock’s mind as he fully buried himself and pumped faster. 

“Oh fuck! Yes. Like that. Oh God!” John cried.

“Wait,” Sherlock stopped his pace.

“No, not now.” John whined.

“I want to see you. On your back,” Sherlock demanded.

John made no haste in turning over. 

“How do we do this?” Sherlock rubbed his chin.

John winked. “Luckily I have watched this porn.”

He spread his legs wide and brought his knees up to his chest. Carefully, Sherlock climbed on top of him. One hand braced against the floor to hold him over John; the other brushed a lock of hair from John’s forehead. “I love you. I need you to know that,” Sherlock said tenderly. 

“Make love to me.” His hands slid down Sherlock’s damp back.

He leaned over to capture John’s lips. John planted his heels onto the small of Sherlock’s back. Lining himself up, he pressed into John’s body again. He didn’t ease himself in this time. He was desperate to claim John. No woman or man would ever come between them again. 

“Oh Sherlock!” John screamed as his prostate was nudged.

Sherlock focused all his thrusts to bring John over the edge. 

“Open your eyes,” John panted.

It was a million times better than any of his fantasies. The firelight gleaned on John’s damp skin. Every brush of his prostate rendered John speechless. He could only moan and gasp for air. Sherlock could barely make out ‘harder’.

Then all control was lost. Sherlock’s pace became frenetic and unforgiving. He slammed into John and growled. He knew that tingling sensation in his pelvis, he was close. He wanted John there with him in the moment. He reached between them and stroked John’s cock with the same pace that he was thrusting into him. 

John saw Sherlock outlined in glow of the fire. Damp curls stuck to his furrowed brow. Those ridiculously full lips were poised in a perfect circle. Even in the low light, he could see those iridescent blue eyes shining down on him.

“I’m close to losing control. Come with me, John. Together.” Sherlock pressed his forehead to John’s.

John's hands slipped as he tried to hold on Sherlock’s sweat soaked back. His legs trembled as the heat curled inside him. John was an experienced lover, but he’d never felt so undone. He gasped and moaned. Sherlock surrounded John completely. 

“Sherlock!!! Yes! Yes!” 

Sherlock watched as John covered their stomachs with his semen. He curled his toes and came deep inside John after a few more thrusts. He didn’t remember closing his eyes. 

“John,” was all he could say before he collapsed on top of John.

“That was…” John sighed.

“Everything,” Sherlock entwined his fingers with John’s. 

“Overdue.” John ran his fingers through the damp curls at nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Very.” Sherlock felt as though he had plunged a syringe of the purest cocaine into his vein. Every cell of his body felt satiated. “I don’t want to leave you,” he mumbled.

“We should get cleaned up before we stick together,” John chuckled. 

Sherlock kissed John before he rolled into his back beside him. His stomach and thighs were sticky with sweat and semen. He began to giggle.

John rolled to the side and propped up on his elbow. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m not a virgin. Somehow that makes me feel ridiculously giddy.” Sherlock’s grin was wide.

“I hope you enjoyed it, because I know I’ll want to do that again,” said John.

“I never knew what I was missing.” He shrugged. “I guess the right motivation and partner.”

“So romantic.” John hauled himself up and stumbled a bit. “My legs are absolute jelly.”

“I was that good?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Look at the state of your knees.” John peered down at the detective.

“Ah yes, rug burn.”

He offered a hand to Sherlock. “Just like Donovan.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Please do not mention anyone at the Met during any phase of sex.”

“Let’s shower.” John tugged Sherlock toward the bathroom.

“Together?”

John chuckled. “You’re going to get shy now?” He felt Sherlock stop. When he turned around, Sherlock stood perfectly still staring into space. “What is it?”

“When I left the flat, I thought it was over. Our friendship, our partnership - everything. I thought it was irreparable.” Sherlock blinked away the tears the threatened to fall. “I never expected this…that we’d..”

John wrapped his arms around the shaking brunette. “I know. I feel....lucky...” 

Sherlock shook off the melancholy. “Let’s shower.”

So many times, they each had imagined the other while showering. Slowly, they soaped each other, taking time to catalogue every crease and freckle. John was truly spent after his two amazing orgasms. Sherlock, being relatively new in his sexual experience, was hard the moment John touched him. With his back pressed to tiles, John slowly brought the genius to the edge of orgasm twice before one last pull had him crying John’s name. 

Now completely boneless and in fresh pyjamas, Sherlock lounged between John’s legs and nestled in his arms against the sofa. It was a perfect scene with a newly stoked fire, twinkling lights and snow blowing outside. 

“It’s officially Christmas,” John said.

“It’s been official for two hours.” Sherlock murmured.

“I still have to give you your present.” 

Sherlock tilted his head to rest in the crook of John’s shoulder. “You gave yourself to me. I don’t need anything else.” 

John’s phone buzzed in the pocket of a pair of carelessly discarded jeans. Sherlock snatched them from the floor. Fishing around, he pulled out the mobile. 

“Lisa?” Sherlock showed John.

John sighed. “Reminding me of brunch with her parents.”

“At two in the morning? How did you leave things with her?”

John had been vague with Lisa. The only way he could get her to leave so he could talk with Sherlock was to promise brunch on Christmas morning. He had no way of knowing he’d end his evening with his flatmate spread out between his legs.

“Not clear enough,” John said. He tossed his mobile on the sofa.

“You aren’t seriously planning to go.” Sherlock turned in John’s arms.

“Well, it would seem cruel to just be a no-show on Christmas,” John said.

Sherlock slid away from John. “What if I told you I was going to Irene’s?” 

“It’s different. Irene wasn’t your girlfriend,” John said. 

“You still would hate it because no matter what I or Irene say, there will always be a nugget of doubt in your mind.” 

Sherlock was right. John felt a little less jealous of Irene, but there was still lingering mistrust.

“Sherlock, it’s Christmas.” John didn’t want to go to this brunch. He knew it was lying. But it was two hours he would have to survive. He’d break up with her on Boxing Day.

“And you should be spending it with the person you just had intercourse with.” Sherlock snapped. “I do not care that you would rather be with me. I do not want her acting like your girlfriend. No touching, no kissing. I will not share you--even if it’s for a few hours. I have endured hearing you with all the others, John. I have suffered while listening to squeaky bedsprings and moans. Do you know how difficult it was for me?” 

John scrubbed a hand over his face. He knew how he felt just imagining Sherlock with Irene. At least he hadn't been forced to hear the evidence first hand. John wanted to burn his bed and every memory of sex that he had before Sherlock.

“I’m so sorry.” John reached for him. He rubbed Sherlock’s knee. “If I had known, I would have ended it. They were awful substitutions for what I thought I could never have. I’ll tell her I’m sick and can’t go. Then I’ll break up with her the following day. I promise.”

He covered John’s hand on his knee. “I’m sorry. I loathe being jealous and needy. Perhaps why I’ve stayed away from relationships. I’m a bit rubbish at sentiment.”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. “We’re both new at this. I’ve never had a relationship with a best friend or a man. I want this. I want the good and bad and even the ugly.”

Sherlock quirked a smile. “I think you’ve already had the ugly.”

He nudged the genius. “Are your referring to Lisa?”

“And Anna and Colette and Rhonda….shall I continue?” 

“Stop, you clot. They weren’t all bad. True, none are as gorgeous as you,” John giggled.

“You really think me gorgeous?” Sherlock asked. He still could not believe he was having a post coital conversation with the man he loved.

John cocked his head. “You damn well know you are. You use it to your advantage whenever you can. I’ve seen you use it against Molly.”

“I just thought Molly had terrible taste in men.” Sherlock shrugged slightly.

John smiled as he crawled over Sherlock. “She might, but I don’t.” 

Sherlock hoped that he got used to John’s kisses. The messy hungry ones. The quick pecks. The slow lingering drag of lips--like this. He could live with this forever if John let him.  

Sherlock pulled away. “No more.”

“No more what?” John frowned.

“No more hiding or games. Definitely no more seeing other people even if I’ve never dated anyone. I have no use for anyone that is not you. Can you agree to that?” Sherlock knew it was time to bare his heart. 

“Tomorrow, we’re going lay about in bed and shag to celebrate the birth of Jesus. At some point, we’ll get take away and have some wine. Perhaps shag some more.” John placed a tender kiss on Sherlock’s temple. “Then I’m going to dump my girlfriend and plan the rest of my life with you.” He looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “If you’ll have me.”

“You are all I have ever wanted.”

  


 

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I can say I have completed 3 works in my lifetime! 
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed reading this (even if Christmas is over). I thank everyone who took the time to read my silly little story. And I simply adore anyone who commented. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta and sometimes agent - and my fan who eggs me on to write. 
> 
> Thank you.


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